


The Red Dress (Is Blood)

by RevMarsh



Category: The Room (2003)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8890177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevMarsh/pseuds/RevMarsh





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chianine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chianine/gifts).



“Leave us!” he demanded. Lisa and Mark hovered.   
The blood. Denny bit his lip, hard, willing the other two away with the most energy he could spare. So much blood. He felt for the exit wound. Low enough; the spinal cord would heal in a short period. Johhny’s aim had never been particularly good, despite the football practice. Any higher and there would have been no option. “Just leave! Both of you!” Denny glanced back at Mark, who was already at the stairwell. Mark knew, he thought. Mark knew time was short. Johnny had lost almost too much blood. 

“Leave him,” he called back at Lisa. “Let him be with him.” The blonde stood and turned away. The moment was long enough. 

Johnny was just starting to rouse when Denny heard the sirens and Lisa drifted, in her pointless way, back towards the body of her ex-future-husband. Future-ex-husband? He shook his head. Time to focus. Focus on the 

_the blood is the life is the lifeblood is the will is the power is_

ebb and flow of the power he exchanged. This hadn’t been the plan, he grimaced. If his sire hadn’t been suddenly called away, they’d have all done this in a much better situation. There would have been good scotch, music, as many roses as Johnny would have liked, and no more jobs at the bank. No matter. He’d explain it tonight. 

Lisa’s purse lay at hand, and, pretending to shove it towards her, Denny slipped the heavy Beretta inside. He closed his eyes and refocused on Mark. Mark was easy to command. Denny’s words came out of his all-American mouth. 

“Lisa,” Mark said. “I’m Johnny’s best friend. You’re supposed to be his wife. They’re going to look for us first. We need to get out of here.” Lisa stammered, panicked. Denny pulled the tie from his friend’s neck, wiping up the extra blood, and idly sucked the sweetness from the stains as he combed the clots from Johnny’s black hair. 

The pale skin and soft, flowing hair had amused Denny when he’d first met Johnny, as if he’d wanted desperately to become the thing he did not know he entertained. The old horror movies they’d watched on his couch had made way for James Dean films. The man had plenty of fascinations, enough that Denny had gone to his sire and asked him to learn about the man as well. 

Peter was excellent at making friends.

* * *

“What I find puzzling,” he said to Denny one evening, “is that your friend Johnny hasn’t figured either of us out yet.” The fireplace crackled, its gas flame safely clamped between glass in Peter’s penthouse apartment. 

“You mean, that we’ve known him for five years now and he hasn’t quite figured out that I still look seventeen?”  
“Precisely. Well, that, and his complete...blast. What’s the term we’re using these days?”

Denny rolled his eyes. “Homoerotic tendencies. God, you’re such a Freudian.”

“Directly, yes. But yes, that’s the term. The ways he acts around his friend, that Mark. And, frankly, yourself.”

“I wouldn’t say no.” Peter laughed around his whiskey. “Just tonight he...did I tell you how I blatantly told him that I liked to watch him romance his fianceé?” 

“No!”

“She reminded me to leave, but...well, perhaps he just needs to meet a more open-minded woman.”

The psychologist shrugged. “No one I know around here. San Francisco’s demographics of our type don’t skew towards his type.” 

“He doesn’t know his type, Peter!” Denny tossed a stolen handful of rose petals at his sire. “Make me look like James Dean.”

* * *

The sirens faded. Denny swept up the detritus from Johnny’s anger as he felt the players dance around the city. He felt Mark’s consciousness grow distant as he dodged between the townhouses and shops. Lisa had always been trickier to keep tabs on, and he lost her scent sooner. Peter would arrive soon, but the older man was unhurried. He envied his certitude. 

Strength came to him as he no longer had to attempt to control Lisa and Mark; he lifted Johnny to the bed. The lifeblood pulsed in him, a steady thrum, although the shock to his system kept the newly-made in a nearly-comatose state. Denny had only seen it once, when Peter had helped intercede with an almost failed conversion in the men’s restroom at a nightclub. 

They had, however, just discussed - again - the plan to approach Johnny a few nights before. The upcoming wedding had Peter concerned. Denny’s dealings with less-savory members of the suprahuman underground of San Francisco threatened to become public. 

“I’m going to try to make this what you probably dreamed of,” he said, arranging the pillows under Johnny’s head. He folded the man’s hands across his chest. Downstairs, he collected the rest of the flowers Johnny filled the apartment with. His thin arms collected the roses in bunches, discarding the cheap vases Lisa’s mother kept giving them. The wilting ones he pulled apart, scattering the petals and even tossing a few into the netting that hung around the bed. He lit the candelabra. He tore the red dress into a jaunty cravat, and replaced the necktie. 

He was surprised not to find a cape in any of Johnny’s closets. Peter arrived as he finished looking through the downstairs coatrack. He was immaculate, white gloves and sparkling thin glasses. 

“Not quite how we planned,” he said, and bent down to kiss his progeny’s head. “But I can feel it already. You’ve done well, Denny.”

“I’m changing my name in the next city, Peter.”

“You’re changing your clothes now, young man,” Peter said, with a wink. “I can’t stand you in this 21st century teenager mufti.” He handed him a bag. “It’s not your favorite, but I think it’s what Johnny will like.”

* * *

Johnny woke up with a headache. His eyes blurred. The room smelled of blood and roses. James Dean relaxed to his left, in jeans and t-shirt. The ideal young man stretched, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

“Am I dead?”

The man pulled him closer, and kissed his cheek. 

“You’re what you always wanted to be, Johnny.”

“What words are you talking, James?” He started to sit up, and Denny braced him for the dizziness that he knew would strike. “What’s gone with Lisa? Where is...I was goodbye to the world! But you are here! Is it new cruelty?”

“Johnny. She tore you apart.” 

“Yes!”

“We put you back together.” He took a switchblade from his jeans pocket, and drew a thin bead of blood from his forearm. “Drink, Johnny.”

Even, Denny thought, if I don’t get a chance to be any closer to Johnny, I will always remember the Christmas-morning look in his eyes when he realized what he had become.


End file.
